Unburdening: Why Letting Go of Everything Is the First Step in Reclaiming Myself

This year, I learned that the hardest part of moving isn’t packing boxes or changing addresses. It’s the quiet reckoning that happens in the stillness of a half-empty room.

There I was—surrounded by relics of a life I’d built with someone else, now disentangling myself one piece of furniture at a time. One memory at a time.

You can’t just uproot a whole life without examining it first. So instead of dragging the past into my new home, I decided to leave it behind. All of it.

There’s an eerie kind of finality in giving things away. Each item I released took with it a fragment of what no longer fit. The couch we chose together. The dining table that held laughter and long nights. The bed that carried both dreams and difficult conversations. These weren’t just objects—they were markers of a shared life that had splintered off in another direction.

I used to see purging as loss. Now, I see it as liberation.

The process of stripping down to essentials has been more than physical—it’s been spiritual. A symbolic cleansing. A shedding of old habits, expectations, and roles I’d worn for so long that I’d almost forgotten who existed beneath them.

A New Space, A New Start

My new place came partially furnished. It felt like living in someone else’s draft version of a home—just enough to function, nothing more. And honestly, that’s what drew me in. No clutter. No chaos. No reminders of what was. Just a blank canvas waiting for me to decide what to fill it with… if I chose to fill it at all.

At first, I wanted to fill every empty corner—an instinctive reaction to discomfort: distract, accumulate, stuff the void. But each time I paused, breathed, and sat with the bareness, I realized something.

This space wasn’t empty; it was free.

I began to see the emptiness not as something to fix, but something to embrace. Each unfilled corner became an invitation—to choose intentionally. To build consciously. To resist the pressure to “have more.”

So I started with less. A capsule wardrobe: only what I love. Books I actually read. A few meaningful keepsakes. The rest? Released.

From Minimalism to Healing

This paring down has become a kind of therapy. When you find yourself alone—no longer a “we” but a “me”—it’s easy to bury the ache beneath layers of distraction. But healing doesn’t come from filling the void. It comes from sitting with it and realizing it’s not your enemy.

Giving away furniture wasn’t just about reducing belongings—it was about releasing emotional weight. The dresser that held our linens also held resentment. The armchair carried my unspoken fears. Watching them leave, I felt lighter. I wasn’t just clearing space in my home—I was clearing space in my heart.

Rooted Before I Roam

When I began this process of letting go, I thought I was creating space for the next adventure. What I didn’t realize was that the first stop on my journey wouldn’t be abroad—but back home.

In April, my son and I moved in with my mom. It wasn’t part of the original plan, but it’s exactly what I needed: a soft place to land while I recalibrated. A space to rebuild without the noise, to mother from a place of peace rather than pressure.

There’s humility in returning home—but there’s also healing. Being here has reminded me that freedom doesn’t always mean movement. Sometimes it means allowing yourself to be held—to pause, rest, and be poured back into.

It’s a season of grounding before expansion. A quiet reminder that before I can give my son the world, I have to remember what home feels like in its truest form.

Preparing for Nomadic Freedom

Minimalism, for me, isn’t about aesthetics—it’s about clarity.

What do I actually need? What parts of me have been buried beneath all the excess? I’m finally quiet enough to hear the answers.

And maybe, it’s also about what comes next.

The dream of a digital nomad life doesn’t feel as daunting when you’re not weighed down by things. Each item I release is a rehearsal for freedom—preparing me and my son to travel light, carrying only what we truly need.

No baggage, physical or emotional, in this next chapter.

Letting Go as a Declaration

I’ve realized that letting go isn’t about deprivation—it’s about permission.

Permission to redefine myself. To evolve. To be more by choosing less.

I’m not rushing this process. In this slow, deliberate pruning, I’m discovering what actually matters. I’m finding my way back to myself.

What I’m Learning in the Space I’ve Created

This leaner way of living has shifted something fundamental. I want my son to see a parent unafraid of emptiness—to know that silence isn’t something to fill, but something to listen to.

When you only own what you love, everything carries meaning. Morning coffee in one favorite mug. A closet that reflects who I am now—not who I was trying to be.

There’s peace in that.

A Future of Intention, Not Possession

This is how I want to move forward: unburdened, untethered, and present.

As I prepare for our nomadic chapter, I’m learning that freedom doesn’t come from chasing experiences—it comes from being fully awake in each one.

The less I carry, the more room I have for what matters most: presence, connection, and a life defined not by what I own, but by what I create and share.

Until then, I’m savoring this in-between—the quiet of a shared home that’s full of love, and the peace of knowing I’m not escaping anything. I’m simply making room for everything.

Here’s to new beginnings—lived lightly and loved deeply.

xoxo,

Sia